Life in Technicolour
by whitchry9
Summary: John Watson sees into people's souls. Or that's what it would be if he believed in souls. He sees their colours dancing around. Strangely enough, Sherlock has colours he's never seen before. Never like that.
1. A Study in Pink (&Violet & Blue & Black)

John was turquoise with splatters of blue, like someone had flung paint at him. He thought he looked rather nice, and took pride in that, despite the fact that no one else could see it. Still, he felt a bit proud when he met someone with ugly orange shades or tinted with brown, and felt a tiny bit happier to know that he was the colour of the sky, at least most days.

He hadn't always been turquoise, or at least had seen that he was, although he suspected the colour people were was constant throughout their life, so he would have been blue, even prior to his seeing it. But this seeing part was a relatively new development. Post Afghanistan. That was really what his life had become now, things that were Before, and things that were After.

John had been interested in his own colours for the first few months, but after the novelty of them had worn off and he was discharged from the hospital with a cane and a therapist, they didn't seem to matter as much. And like they somehow felt it, his colours faded and shrunk away from him.

Things were dull in London. The colours just couldn't compare to the blood red of the many things in Afghanistan, the sunsets, the sand, and the blood of the men around him he couldn't save.

So he wandered around, looking for bright people and things, all the while feeling himself growing more faint.

Mike was looking particularly green that day when John met him again. So much, in fact, that he almost missed him sitting in the park. He looked a bit like grass, fluttering about in the wind. John hadn't really wanted to meet him, to talk about what happened, but he'd been forced into it.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?" "I got shot."

Mike's colours blushed and grimaced, embarrassed for him, even if he didn't outwardly show it. John felt bad for that, and allowed the man to buy him a cup of coffee and they sat together on a park bench, Mike people watching and John for colours.

One thing led to another and John allowed Mike to talk him into meeting someone looking for a flatmate.

This decision was one of the most influential in his life. _(Going to med school, signing up for the army, getting shot [not a decision], coming back to London, not jumping off the bridge that day, and now this. Allowing Mike to drag him into this mess that would become his life.)_

Sherlock was perhaps the most brilliant man he'd ever seen. At least, that was going by John's initial impression of his colours. He's never seen someone who was so wholly violet before. He'd seen people with streaks of violet, or occasional patches, but he'd never seen someone who had been practically entirely shrouded in violet.

It left him with no words for a few minutes.

John offered him his phone, any opportunity to get closer, and found that light pink and yellow tendrils reached out to his wrist. He heard most of the conversation, and wondered if he perhaps missed the most important bit when the brilliant man invited him to come live with him.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

John gaped at this strange man who he'd just met, with colours he'd never seen before, and who was still nameless."Is that it?" "Is that what?" "We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?" "Problem?" "We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."

And the violet man ran through a series of facts about him, flashed a smile, offered a name and address and was gone.

John looked over to Mike, whose colours were hovering about rather sheepishly, and he only said "Yeah. He's always like that."

He met Sherlock again the next day, still the brilliant shade of violet, leading John to wonder if the man was like this all the time. It might be hard to look at him so much, especially if they were going to live together.

The landlady was lovely, a Mrs Hudson who fretted about Sherlock like a mother hen. She was emerald green and indigo with streaks flying around. John liked her immediately. He tried not to judge people by their auras, but it was rather difficult, seeing as they were excellent judges of character.

A man showed up at the flat, a man who looked exhausted and tired of life, defeated to be coming to Sherlock for help. His colours were subdued, but John still recognized the dark red of a capable and realistic man. He asked Sherlock for help, with a suicide no less, and while Sherlock pretended to be only mildly interested, John saw him brighten more than he thought possible, and actually considered shielding his eyes. It subdued somewhat after Sherlock bounced around the flat, but John was still hesitant to share a cab with him. But of course he did.

Sherlock dragged him to a crime scene. He met a woman who was bitter, and man who was even more so, and a dead woman who had nothing. Dead people didn't have auras anymore. The disappeared along with all brain function. The soul, some might say. Not John.

(He's seen far too many brain dead patients, kept alive with ventilators and machines, people who were technically still living, but had no colours, no aura, no life. He hated those patients.)

Sherlock ran off and left John alone. He was picked up by a car with a strange woman whose colours didn't believe any of what she was saying. It was interesting to watch, like a lie detector that only he could see. He smiled at himself.

She took him to a building to meet with a strange man.

"You don't seem very afraid," the strange man informed him.

John almost laughed. No man with that colour could possibly be frightening.

With that mix of brown and grey shrouding his interior colours, that man was guarded beyond belief. But inside, there was a deep blood red. Sure, there were spots of other colours, but they were hidden by the murky outside, and most of all, that blood colour that hid everything else away. And where most people's auras danced and had little bits that flung out to touch others, body language for the soul, this man had none. His clung to his body like it was afraid to leave.

_Definitely hiding something, _John decided.

"You don't seem very frightening," he told him.

Yet some of what that man said rung true. ("Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?") Because by the end of the night, John had shot another man for Sherlock, a dark and brooding man, a dying man. John could see death in him, could see it in most people. He even saw how he was reaching out to Sherlock, black tendrils like snakes reaching out to squeeze the life out of his brilliant violet. As soon as John shot him, the black fingers left Sherlock alone, and he grew brighter.

John crouched behind the wall, breathing heavily and eyeing a spot of dark grey that flickered around him for a moment before disappearing. _Guilt? _No, he decided. He'd saved Sherlock.

He saved Sherlock that night and they went out for Chinese. John swore he practically felt himself growing brighter.


	2. Interlude

John grew into the new life that he found himself in. He'd never have imagined things would turn out this way when he was in uni, let alone even when he woke up in the hospital, thinking he was dying with all those white lights around him. (Nurses tended to have white auras, which was probably what lead to the whole 'light' belief that accompanied near death experiences.) It was strange and most people would have left after they'd found the head in the fridge, but John only looked at Sherlock with green edges, playing his violin contently, and made tea.

Sherlock was violet most of the time. He had periods of orangey yellow when he was thinking. During those not talking for days periods, he'd turn an intriguing shade of purple that was almost lavender. Those times, all John wanted to do was stare.

When he wasn't thinking, during those bored periods, he'd grow more dark green and John never liked those times. He'd have spots of gold when doing experiments that made him grow frustrated. It was those times John made sure to keep something near by to act as a shield in case Sherlock threw something, which had happened more than once.

John was no longer faded, no longer pale, no longer bored. John's colours deepened like the teabags he steeped for him and Sherlock. Strong.


	3. The Colour-Blind Banker

Sherlock had been slightly more unusual lately, which was saying a lot. After coming out of Soo Lin Yao's apartment, he'd been distant, raspy, and... well if John was reading him correctly, paler than usual. Not his skin (seemingly impossible), but his colours. Like he'd almost drifted away.

John had asked him, concerned, whether he was alright. Sherlock, being himself, only waved a hand at him and claimed he was fine.

John didn't quite believe him, but what was he supposed to do.

_Oh Sherlock, you say you're fine, but your aura is looking paler around the edges and it's looking a bit saggy around the head and shoulders area. So I'm going to ask you again- are you fine?_

No, that wouldn't do at all.

Soo Lin, when they finally met her, shocked John. Not her personality, she was perfectly pleasant, average intelligence, pretty. No, it was her aura, her colours that scared John. Because while she was shrouded in a dark grey, hiding, near her skin was angry fiery red and orange. She looked like she was burning. It frightened John.

But as she told them her story, she calmed somewhat, looking less like she was burning, and looked more like she was glowing. But then they heard her brother. Her brother who came to kill her. Gone was the fire, gone was the glow, and the dark grey threatened to meld into a black and envelope her completely. She was terrified.

(John would have been interested to know, that as she spoke to him right before he killed her, her aura calmed completely and mellowed to a pale green. Then there was nothing else.)

He watched Sherlock as he realized she was dead. Shame flickered in at his edges. Was it shame? Sherlock didn't seem like the type of person who would feel shame. Yet there it was, dark blue slipping in at the edges, a clear sign of guilt or shame. John would know; he'd seen it so often. Even in himself.

But they solved the case. Not entirely, Sherlock was unhappy with the conclusion, but John and Sarah survived, and that was good enough for them.

Still, dark blue lingered in Sherlock for the next week before it faded away completely.


	4. The Great Game and Great Absence

John had an uneasy feeling about the case from the start, the whole thing with the pips and poor people wired to bombs was unsettling to him. Especially that child... he shuddered thinking about it. Even Sherlock had shown doubt in his abilities, his usual confident shade of violet dimming in patches.

But it was really when John was taken on his way to Sarah's house that he became absolutely sure there was something really wrong going on. (The abduction should have been the major clue for that, but really, that was nothing. He'd had that happen before. It was the man who seemed to be in charge, the one who John figured was Moriarty, that was the truly shocking part.)

Moriarty had no colours.

It sickened John to look at him as he talked. John didn't hear the words. He was shoved into a bomb covered vest and a bulky winter coat, but he didn't really notice that either. He was both transfixed and horrified by the man who seemed to be singing at him, breaking out into yelling every once in a while. _He had no colours. _

Why? How? The only people John had seen without colours were dead people or brain dead. People who no longer possessed 'souls'. Was that what this was?

(And how had he missed this? He'd met him before, playing gay, playing Jim from IT. Why hadn't he noticed an absence of colours then? Oh, right. That was the day Sherlock had drugged him. Sherlock had thought the effects of the drug would not be noticeable, as it was a rather commonplace drug. Sherlock had been shocked he'd noticed, as it usually took weeks for the effects of those drugs to be seen. There'd been quite a fight over that one, John being at the disadvantage of not being able to see Sherlock's aura to predict how the argument would go. As they did go, this one was not bad. Sherlock stormed out, but came back later with milk, his version of an apology. The effects of the drugs took a day to wear off, and John was stuck with relative blindness. If only Sherlock knew what consequences that experiment had...)

John saw the grey flashes of shock in Sherlock as he stepped out into full sight at the pool, speaking words fed to him by the soulless man.(Not really, but that was as close as John was going to get to an explanation at the moment, so he just went with it.)

Realization dawned on Sherlock finally, and John wasn't sure what was worse, the horrible thought that his flatmate was his enemy, or the idea that they could both die right there.

Sherlock had black tips on his aura, something that was just as concerning to John as was the red dots dancing on both of them. John hadn't seen Sherlock with black before, and worried that it meant fear. John wasn't sure if he could handle Sherlock Holmes being afraid of anything.

But Moriarty's phone rang and the colourless man answered it, practically singing and yelling at the same time. John was rather uneasy, because he could tell that Moriarty was extremely interested in who was on the other end of the phone, and if he had colours, the tips of them would be curling up in excitement. John was left with no data except for a strange smile and cryptic statement.

He may have passed out a bit after that, but he figured he was entitled, it had been an awful day, and between whatever drugs he'd been given to knock him out, the absence of colours that made him sick to his stomach, and oh, that near death experience may have weighed in.

He awoke at home to the lingering bad feeling in his stomach and taste in his mouth, but thankfully, Sherlock had returned to his usual violet state, no hints of black to be seen, even if he was a bit cloudier than usual.


	5. A Scandal in Belgravia and Blood Red

Failure came in the form of a woman shrouded in blood red and murkiness.

Sherlock couldn't see that of course, he was distracted by the puzzle. But John saw what was underneath, or rather, on top, and knew that this woman was dangerous.

And he saw how Sherlock responded to her, his violet reaching out to her blood red and they twisted together. It was almost violent, like Sherlock was struggling to get away, but Irene held on tight and wouldn't let him go.

John wanted to grab Sherlock and free him from the Woman's clutches, but he'd tried that before, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not consciously make or break bonds. Unconsciously was an entirely different matter.

And in the end, it was just a trick. Perhaps even Sherlock's aura had been in on the secret deception, the long game, pretending to be held hostage when that was what it really wanted.

John wouldn't put it past him.

Sherlock won, and that was really all that mattered to him. He kept a speck of blood red on his upper arm, almost like a badge, a tattoo, a war wound. A sign of prevailing, of coming out on top.

John lied to Sherlock about Irene's fate.

"She's in America," he told him, feeling himself blush as he lied. Not the part of him that Sherlock could see, but blushing nonetheless. "America?" "Mm-hm. Got herself on a witness protection scheme, apparently. Dunno how she swung it, but, well, you know." "I know what?" "Well, you won't be able to see her again." "Why would I want to see her again?" " Didn't say you did."

John swore he saw signs of deception in Sherlock, sheepish hints that he knew something he wasn't letting on about, but dismissed it.

_Sherlock couldn't have been there. Could he?_

Then again, there was the patch of blood red he kept.


	6. Interlude Part II

John didn't know how look it took him to notice, probably a very long time, because he tended not to see his own colours, rather like when your eyes adjusted to the darkness of a room. But one day, there he was, for some reason in front of a full body mirror (was it a case? Sherlock dragged him shopping?) and it was just there. A tiny spot of violet, the exact shade of Sherlock's base colour, suspiciously near his heart. He stared at it for a while, wondering if he was just in a mood, or if it was a trick of the lights. He stayed that way until Sherlock threw a coat at him (which neither ruled out or included either of the possible situations they may have been in) and he was once again distracted.

When he remembered, weeks later, he went looking for it and there it was. Still the small bit of violet, nestled near his heart.

He didn't really want to know why.


	7. The Spotted Heart of Baskerville

Sherlock could change colours in a blink of an eye, faster than John had seen anyone do before. (And this was including that one dissociative woman he'd met on his psych rotation.)

One minute they were sitting in front of the fireplace, Sherlock's violet flittering about nervously, and the next he was red, enraged, tendrils reaching out towards John like they wanted to hurt him.

And John apologized, for all the good that would do, told Sherlock that how should he know, he's only his friend, and as Sherlock told him he didn't have friends, John swore he saw something shift, one of those tell tale signs that meant someone was lying. But Sherlock didn't do that. _Wouldn't. _

So John shrugged it off, left Sherlock to sulk, and went off.

The next morning, when Sherlock gave John his apology (if it could be called that) he noticed for the first time what appeared to be a different colour amidst all that brilliant violet. A colour he'd never really seen on Sherlock before.

And similar to John's violet patch, it clung to his heart. A small turquoise speck, almost too small to see if one wasn't looking closely for it.


	8. The Fall of the Violet Heart

**The [Reichenbach] Fall of the Violet Heart**

(AN- title was one letter too long which really annoyed me)

* * *

John was shocked to see Sherlock on the roof, shocked in a way most people would have dismissed as denial, but this was John Watson, Sherlock's flatmate and blogger and personal doctor as well as the man who could see into his soul and there were absolutely none of those heartbreaking blue patches he'd seen before in so many people, even in himself, that indicated someone was close to doing that. To ending it. No sign of that pain, that sorrow, that unwillingness to go on any longer.

But perhaps those people were right. Perhaps John was just in denial, refusing to face what was right in front of him, not wanting to see the horrible, aching, gut wrenching truth. That Sherlock Holmes, the brilliantly coloured and brilliantly minded man that John cared so much for just jumped off a building in front of him.

Of course John was in denial, but that didn't mean that he had to be wrong, did it?

There was only one other thing that bothered John, that when he was stumbling over to Sherlock, aching to touch him, to feel a pulse, and falling into some well meaning woman's arms, Sherlock's colours were still bright, still dancing, and almost seemed to be reaching out to John. Caressing him. Soothing him. John had seen many dying people before, and their auras looked nothing like this, they were fading and seemed to melt back into their body before disappearing completely.

John wrote it off by saying he was concussed and in shock. Both of which were true. But he always wondered.

Wondered if there was still a brilliant violet man out there anywhere. Because if there was, John knew he would recognize him.

After all, he still had that bit of violet that clung to his heart.


End file.
